


london calling to the faraway towns

by spock



Category: Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Banter, Canon-Typical Humour, Clothed Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Semi-Anonymous Sex, Size Difference, Strangers to Lovers, Yuleporn, minor uniform kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: He clears his throat. "I'm called John." He reaches between them, awkwardly extending his hand."Quite," the man says, still sounding amused. He looks up at John and frowns. "Oh my. You're serious."
Relationships: Man with Stolen Wallet/Policeman Going Back to His Place (Monty Python)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 53
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	london calling to the faraway towns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturni_stellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/gifts).



> Monty Python — [The Missing Wallet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwKU2DFKQ_A).

Hardly anyone else is about, early as it is. He shouldn't feel half as paranoid as he does, yet he can't seem to keep from making sure there's at least a few paces between the two of them as they make their way along the pavement.

The man comes to a stop right as they pass a bend. "You're making me nervous," he says, looking up so that their eyes meet. "What'll the neighbours say when they catch sight of an inspector trailing after me like this?"

He hadn't thought of that.

They walk the rest of the way shoulder to shoulder, and somehow it has him keenly aware of the silence between them. "So," he says, grasping for a topic. "What were you doing at the park?"

It earns him a brief look, amused and somehow mainly articulated via the friendly shape of the man’s mouth. "Oh, it isn't important now."

He gets the feeling that he's missing something. "Morning constitutional?" he presses, anything to keep the conversation going.

The man's smile is impossibly sweet, transforming the landscape of his face completely. "Yes," he says. "I suppose so."

Silence descends again. He clears his throat. "I'm called John." He reaches between them, awkwardly extending his hand.

"Quite," the man says, still sounding amused. He looks up at John and frowns. "Oh my. You're serious." He stops walking and takes John's hand, giving a firm enough shake that John feels it through his glove. "Well, I'm Michael. If it matters."

 _Of course it matters_ , he wants to say, but their interactions thus far have John feeling certain that it'll only be another chance for Michael to take the piss if he does.

Michael nods toward a smart-looking house just up the road. "That's me," he says. "If you don't mind pausing the introductions for a moment." It's hard for John to tell if he's being teased or chastised, so he bites back the _sorry_ that's desperate to make its way out of him and follows at Michael's side up the footpath.

They're inside within a few seconds, the door closed behind them. John stands with the wall at his back, Michael mirroring him on the other side of the narrow hall. It's been ages since he last did something like this, and he isn't quite sure what to do with himself.

"I am still working.” If it's meant to be a reminder to Michael or himself, John doesn’t know. It ends up being the wrong thing to say, Michael's expression turning anxious. John's hands come up between them as he steps into Michael's space. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he says. "Only that I haven't exactly got time to stop for tea."

It earns a rather relieved sort of laugh, lines collecting at the corners of Michael's eyes. He has to stand on the points of his shoes to take the peaked cap from John's head. He turns it over in his hands a few times before tipping his chin all the way back to catch John's gaze. "Suppose it's a good thing then," Michael says, "that I wasn't asking you 'round for tea."

John smiles and raises his hands between them, pulling his fingers from his gloves. Michael's head drops down to watch, stepping back once John's tucked them into his pocket. Michael shrugs out of his coat and nods at John's, waiting patiently as for him to undo the buttons before taking it when John hands it off to him.

Hung up together like they are, it's almost comical how much larger his coat is compared to Michael’s. "Christ alive," Michael says, seeming to’ve come to the same conclusion. He turns to look at John over his shoulder. "They certainly do grow them big where you're from."

"What?" John asks, finally starting to feel he’s understanding the rhythm of Michael’s humour. "The south?"

It's as if he's discovered the answer to a riddle. Michael beams at him, stepping closer. He ends up with his arms raised to rest on John's shoulders, fingers twisting the ends of John's hair at his nape. "You're marvellous."

John isn't quite sure what to do with his hands. He places them on Michael's waist, figuring it to be a respectable enough spot for them, before it occurs that nothing at all about what they're doing is respectable, which is rather the point. He loosens his grip and slides them over Michael's sides, down his vest, feeling a surge of courage not entirely dissimilar to whatever it was that had him accepting Michael's offer to begin with. He plants them right above the swell of Michael's arse, pleased that his thumbs hook easily around the front of Michael's hips.

He squeezes. "Oh," John calls, blinking as he slips his fingers into Michael's back pocket. Out comes Michael's wallet.

Both of them look down at it.

Michael's head tilts to the side, eyes rolling up at John. "Well," he says, "you certainly are good at your job!" He pushes onto his tiptoes again, the grip he's still got on John's shoulders becoming firm, steadying himself.

Ridiculously, it isn't enough to get Michael all the way to John's mouth, but it isn't as if John at all minds ducking down to make up the difference.

He stuffs the wallet into his trouser pocket, eager to free up his hand again. Michael seems to be of a similar mind, walking backwards at John's lead until his back is up against the wall, John's hands gripping the backs of his thighs. He lifts Michael up, using his chest to pin Michael comfortably against the pattern of the wallpaper, their mouths finally level.

Michael kisses spectacularly well. John finds himself becoming lost in it, as if it's something being done to him rather than anything requiring his participation. Michael sucks John's bottom lip between his own, nibbling, and John has a moment of panic, feelings as if his knees might fail and send the both of them careening to the floor.

"Stop that," he says, sucking air like a racehorse.

Michael is the picture of innocence, blinking at him with his distractingly long lashes. "Stop what?"

John, embarrassingly enough, can't quite recall. "That," he decides. "Everything."

Michael uses the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to toy with John's earlobe. "I can't stop _everything_ , John." His thighs start to loosen at John's hips as he lowers first one leg and then the other to rest back on the ground. "The body is mostly automatic, you know."

John regrets opening his mouth. He bends until he's able to hide his face within the slope of Michael's shoulder, nosing at the collar of his shirt. "Have you got a bed?" he asks. And then, since it isn't as if he really can claim the pretence of having shame, "The sofa will do, really."

He must've found a sensitive spot, because Michael jolts, shoulder coming up as his hands go to cup John's jaw, their cheeks brushing together when Michael squirms away from his mouth. At the end of it he lets out a breathy huff that has John genuinely considering the merits of the floor.

Michael manages to free himself and heads deeper into the house. John doesn't have to rush to keep pace with him, taking shorter strides than his usual gait to keep himself pressed to Michael's back. He doesn't pay much mind to where it is that Michael's leading them. Instead, he enjoys how easy it is to loom over Michael's shoulder, his arms wrapped around Michael's sides so that he can undo the button's of Michael's vest and shirt as they move through the hallway.

They end their journey in the sitting room. Michael drops onto the sofa and John follows him down, eager to resume their kiss, but Michael presses a firm hand to John's chest, keeping him suspended above him.

Clever fingers make quick work of John's belt, undoing the fly on his trousers in no time at all. Michael stares into his eyes as he slides his hand into John's pants, those same fingers spreading to get a hold on him.

Michael blinks. "Good lord."

John hasn't ever really felt a need to brag about his attributes, but it is rather gratifying to watch Michael's pupils go wide. "Well," he says, feeling slightly embarrassed. "The south."

It gets him a laugh, Michael surging up to kiss him at last.

The house isn’t altogether warm, and it's a bit of a shock when Michael pulls him from his pants and into the cold air of the room. He groans when Michael lets go of him, reaching to fish himself out of his own pants, lifting up to shove them and his trousers down onto his thighs.

Michael's cock isn't anything to be ashamed of either, thick and long and seemingly made of silk, his skin warm and soft when Michael puts the two of them together, stroking them within the strong grip of his hand.

"Christ." John gasps, his hand dropping down to rest on the arm of the sofa, balancing his weight. "That's the stuff." His knuckles pop as he squeezes his hands into fists. His leg at the edge of the sofa slides down onto the floor, giving him leverage to rock into Michael's hand.

"Yes," Michael starts chanting it, over and over again. He tilts his head to the side, lashes fanned out over the apple of his cheek. John is torn, desperately wanting to keep watch on the sight of Michael's hand tossing them both off, even as he finds himself completely transfixed by the wonderous expression rapturing across Michael's face.

He leans in, capturing Michael's lips and kissing him as thoroughly as he can manage, adding in a few nips when the pressure around his cock becomes too much. He knows that he shouldn't, that it's terribly rude, if not verging on the edge of territorial, but the thought of Michael's mouth being bruised by his kisses is just about enough to do him in.

Michael sees to John's end a moment later, his thumb dipping beneath the foreskin to rub directly on the head of his cock, setting him off.

John comes hard enough that his vision goes a bit blurred, mouth dropping open as he gasps into Michael's mouth. Michael stares into his eyes the entire time, John's come making his hand slick as he continues in stroking them both.

It becomes too much almost the second after he's finished spending himself, but John finds that the ability to speak has all but abandoned him, and he struggles to find the words that convey the blissful agony in which he's now found himself.

Luckily for his sanity, Michael finishes not long after, letting out absolutely gorgeous sounds that, albeit briefly, have John considering marriage. It's a ludicrous thought for about a dozen reasons, not least that it's impossible, but he figures that he's allowed, seeing as his brain has most certainly leaked out of his ears.

Michael's eyes are lazy to reopen, the man a picture of satisfaction as he gives a full-bodied stretch, the toes of his shoes pointing towards the opposite arm on the sofa. John's limbs feel like they're about ready to lock up on him, and he awkwardly goes to sit on the floor, his still-hard cock bobbing in his lap.

"Well, that wasn't half-bad," Michael says it conversationally, as if rating a new lunch spot.

John wonders if he's fishing for compliments. "Better than, I'd say," he says, earnestly, before it occurs to him that Michael might really have meant it; it isn't as if John’s actually done anything, after all — it's entirely possible that he hasn’t rated much beyond the average fuck, in Michael's books.

Michael saves him from dithering futher, a cheeky smile spreading across his face. "Suppose you're right," he agrees. "Top tier, shall we say?"

It's odd, John thinks. Being silly with a stranger like this. Especially one who's gotten him off. "Worth a medal."

There's a box of tissues on the side table, and Michael pulls out a few, handing them to John before returning to take a few for himself.

John hasn't much to clean up. He does his best and then returns himself into his trousers, doing up the fly. Michael's managed to get the worst of the mess from his hands, but his stomach is an absolute state. John helps to mop him up, pretending not to notice the smirk slanting across Michael's mouth as he reclines back, allowing John to see to him.

"What medal, do you reckon?" Michael asks.

John doesn't really have to think about it at all. "Bronze," he says.

Michael bolts upright. "Bronze!" He sounds crushed. "How do you mean?"

He feels bad for it, but John can't keep from laughing. "Oh, I don't know," he balls the mess he's made of the tissues up and sets it on the coffee table, not seeing a bin anywhere nearby. "I didn't even get my kit off," he gestures to his chest. "I figure we could do better."

Michael's moods seem to change in an instant, his affronted expression turning into allure before John so much as has time to blink. "Well," he hooks a finger down the side of John's collar, giving a tug. "When you put it like that, I don't suppose I can disagree."

It would be a lie to say he isn't tempted.

John checks the time on his wristwatch and curses under his breath. "I really must be going."

Michael lets out a disgusted sound, falling to his back on the sofa again. "Go if you're going," he says, and John is certain he's never met someone so dramatic in all his life.

Alarmingly, he finds that he quite likes it.

"You'll have to let me go first." He brings a hand up to tap Michael's finger, still hooked at his neck.

Michael cracks open an eye and pouts. The finger removes itself, though Michael strokes the line of John's jaw with his thumb before he pulls back entirely, resting his hand on his stomach.

John stands and finishes doing up his belt, making sure that the tails of his shirt are tucked in. Michael is nothing short of a vision, cock softening in his lap, his torso still a bit damp from their come and his own sweat, pants open and his shirt fanned out around him.

He licks his lips and reminds himself that he does need to go if he actually wants to have a job come morning. “It was nice," he says, and then realizes that he isn't entirely sure how he should end that.

Michael, of course, is delighted by the sight of his panic. "Nice what?" he asks. "Having me tug you off?"

It's maddening, Michael's ability to so consistently pick the one thing John would never actually give voice to. "Meeting you," he says, firmly and as with as much dignity as he can muster. "Have a lovely rest of your day."

Michael's cackling laughter carries all the way to the front of the house. John stops fighting back his smile once he's cleared the hallway, certain that the last thing a man like Michael needs is encouragement.

He shrugs back into his coat and makes sure that the door is shut firmly behind himself as he leaves.

*

It's a good job that the rest of his shift is completely uneventful, because John is useless for the rest of the day, thoughts of Michael running through his mind.

He returns to the station house in a daze, muttering good evenings to his coworkers as he enters through the front.

"Ah, Inspector?"

John turns, seeing Michael sat in one of the visitors chairs they have laid out in front of the grand desk dividing the reception hall from their workspaces in the back

He wonders if he's lost the plot. Wondering if this is some sort of hallucination, a completely different interlude.

Michael stands, walking up to him. "I'm not sure if you remember me. This morning I had my wallet get misplaced at the park?" he asks, sounding entirely genuine. John wonders if this is some strange, roundabout manner of a blackmailing scheme after all. "I dropped in to see if you might've found it."

He gives a rather significant look to John's trousers, and the rest clicks into place.

John reaches inside his pocket and pulls out Michael's wallet. "I think I might've, sir." Terry, his coworker, has got eyes on them from where he’s sat behind the desk, just as bored as John'd been during his shift, the pair of them likely providing the first bit of entertainment he's had all day.

He makes a show of flipping Michael’s wallet open, holding it high enough that Michael can't peek. "Could you tell me what your first name is, sir?"

Michael tells him his name very earnestly, looking hopeful, as if he wouldn't know that it's his wallet on sight alone, nevermind how John came to be in possession of it in the first place.

John nods, passing it over to him. "Glad that I was able to find it for you, sir."

"Not as much as I am, I'm sure." He gives John a winning smile. "Well, that's me off then, I suppose. Please do have a pleasant evening, Inspector," he gives John a significant look before cutting away to wave at Terry behind the desk, adding, "And you as well."

Terry returns the wave. "Get home safe."

With that, Michael's gone.

John watches his arse through the glass of the door, knowing without a shred of doubt that Terry is doing the same.

"Oi, drop dead, why don't you, John?" Terry calls, sighing. "Why is it that you have all the rotten luck? All I get are housewives with ruddy cheeks panting after me, meanwhile you've got dishes like that delivering themselves like they're bloody pizza." He gives a disgusted snort. "He waited thirty minutes," Terry says it in the same manner that a physician might diagnose their patient with cancer. "If you haven't had him, I certainly will."

He's never been the type to kiss and tell, so he gives Terry his most milquetoast smile and heads for the back of the building, ready to change into his civvies and turn in for the night.

John leaves the station not five minutes later, eager for something to eat.

“Inspector!”

Michael’s standing near a streetlamp, waving at him. John can’t keep the smile from his lips as he wanders over. “I’m not actually on the clock now, sir.”

“Oh drat.” He taps a finger against John’s chest, looking up at him helplessly. “I think someone might’ve broken into my flat. I was hoping you might come over, help me make sure it’s alright?”

John stuffs his hands into his pockets, considering. “I think I just might actually be able to do something about that, sir.”

Michael grins. “I’d rather been hoping you’d say that.”


End file.
